


Mommie Dearest

by DollBones



Series: The D.E.N.N.I.S Files [3]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cocaine, Depression, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied Bisexual Behavior, Implied Sexual Content, Mental Health Issues, Narcissism, Other, Self-Harm, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollBones/pseuds/DollBones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the favorite of their mother wasn't as great for Dennis as Dee would think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mommie Dearest

"You don't get it," Dee said to him whenever the subject of their mother came up.  "You were the good one.  'Darling Dennis.'" She sneered.  "Mom loved you.  She hated me."

He'd grin back smugly.  "Well, I can't help it that you turned out to be such a crushing disappointment."

In truth, however, being the recipient of his mother's special brand of love had never been something Dennis would regard as "lucky."  If anything, it had always felt more like a curse.

 

*****

It started in first grade.  His mother pronounced that Dee was an ugly child because she was taller than the other girls.  Personally, Dennis thought his twin was pretty.  But he didn't dare to challenge his mother.  Not when she cooed in his ear about how cute he was and how he'd certainly grow up to be a handsome man--directly after telling Dee that she had a horse's face.  Dennis lapped up the attention, as it wasn't like he was getting much anywhere else.  His father was always away on business trips, and when he _was_ home, all he did was yell at him.  The kids in his class avoided him, saying he was "weird."  So he lived off of her praise, devouring her reassurance hungrily when she'd say, "Those other little brats at school?  Forget them.  They're just a bunch of savages, idiots.  God, do you see the clothes that their parents dress them in?  Please.  You are better than they could ever hope to be."

That same voice that purred out compliment after compliment could also suddenly lash out at him like a whip.  One day when Dennis and Dee were six years old, they decided to put on a pretend wedding.  They both dressed up in their best church clothes, and Dee wore a white blanket as a makeshift veil.  The "ceremony" took place in Dee's bedroom, attended by a dozen of their toys.  The two were holding hands and exchanging "I-dos" when their mother opened the door.

Barbara Reynolds' features scrunched up in disgust.  "What the hell is going on here?"

Dee fixed her with a defiant scowl.  "We're getting married," she said pertly.

Their mother raised her eyebrows.  "Really."  She put her hands on her hips, an elegant figure emanating cool, patrician beauty and piercing contempt.  "Well, I suppose a girl like you, this is probably the closest you'll ever come to getting a man."

"I don't think so," Dennis said.  

His mother's nostrils flared.  "What did you say?" 

"I don't see why Dee couldn't get married," he said timidly.

His mother marched into the room and slapped him.

Cheek stinging, frozen in shock, Dennis could only stare at her as she laid her hands on his shoulders and hissed into his face, " _Don't you ever say anything like that again, Dennis Reynolds, unless you want to be a loser like your sister!  Or maybe I was wrong about you.  Maybe you_ are _a loser.  Well, are you?_ "

The last question was punctuated by a violent shaking that brought him to tears.  "I'm not, I'm not!" he wept.  His tiny limbs trembled with alarm.  He couldn't stand it.  It was too awful to have her glaring at him like that with the same disdain she used for Dee and his father.  Not his mother, whom he needed so much.  He looked up at her, beseechingly.   _Love me, love me, love me._ "I'm sorry, Mommy," he gasped through sobs, "I'm sorry!  It's all just a stupid game, anyway!"

To prove this point, Dennis ripped Dee's napkin veil off her head and stomped it into the ground.  Thus bereaved, Dee began a despairing wail.

Seeing her daughter cry, Barbara Reynolds regained her composure.  Her eyes glittered hard and cruel like diamonds.  There was a perverse pleasure in them.  "Oh, get a hold of yourself, Deandra."

 

*****

"As a special person, you are held to a higher standard than everybody else," his mother explained to him.  There was a specific set of rules that had to be adhered to, expectations to fulfill.   _"Exceptional people have exceptional responsibilities."_

 

*****

One rule, a simple one: stay away from carbs.

 

 *****  

Dennis and his sister were 12 years old, sitting on the couch and watching MTV.  Together, they were polishing off a large bag of potato chips.  As Dennis grabbed a handful of greasy chips and shoved them into his mouth, their mother entered the room, fresh from an appointment at the spa.  She saw the junk food and made a face of revulsion.  "Oh god, children," she said in a disgusted tone.  "Are you really such gluttons?  Puberty is no excuse to turn into savage little eating machines, you know."

Gracefully, she strode over to the couch and swiped up the bag of chips.

"Hey!" Dee protested, voice muffled by a mouthful of food.  "We were eating that!"

Their mother walked into the adjacent kitchen and, flashing them a pointed look, dramatically tossed the bag into the trash.  "'Eating' is not the right word, Deandra," she corrected her.  "'Masticating' is more accurate."

Dee crossed her arms, rolling her eyes.  "Yeah, whatever.  I don't give a shit.  There are other snacks in the pantry."

"Trust me, sweetie, you don't need the carbs," their mother replied acidly.  She looked over at Dennis, examining him.  "You don't either, darling.  Your face is getting fat.''

Dennis shrank into the couch.  A sudden influx of thoughts had begun churning in his brain.  Dark, ugly thoughts, swarming like insects.  Barbara Reynolds climbed the staircase, most likely to go take her pills and pass out in her room.  Dee exhaled in relief.

"Good riddance," she snorted, scooting in a little closer to him. The back brace she had to wear now for scoliosis squeaked at the movement.  "Am I right?"

Dennis wasn't listening.  His hands rose to his cheeks, prodding, feeling for concaveness.  "You don't think my face is fat, do you?" he asked.  His voice was small, fearful.

For a moment, Dee looked like she was about to burst out laughing.  But, seeing his expression, she paused, seeming to reconsider.  She shrugged, a smirk twitching at the ends of her lips.  "Yeah, sure."

They continued watching TV in silence.

 

*****

Another rule: always look your best.  

 

*****

Dennis was 16 years old and in desperate need of concealer.  God, that had been some party, he mused, staring at himself in his bathroom mirror.  He widened his eyes, shot through with tiny red cracks and shadowed from no sleep.   _Gross,_ he thought, squirting in eyedrops.  Most of the people who had showed up at Tim's house had been lame.  The girls weren't that good-looking and freaked out when he hit on them.  And the guys started giving him weird looks after he pounded back his fourth beer.  A bunch of lightweights, the lot of them.  Whatever.  He'd ended up retreating into the master bathroom upstairs with more beer, drinking there until he passed out.  He'd woken up in Tim's bathtub with a whole body ache, a foaming acid pond for a stomach, and soaking wet clothes.  The shower was running.  Tim stood over him, the presumable culprit.  Wearing an irritated expression, the boy leaned over and shut the shower off.  "What the hell are you still doing here, Dennis?"

Dennis squinted up at Tim blearily.  The bright light of the bathroom was like a chainsaw buzzing into his skull.  He brought a hand lightly to his forehead, groaned.   "Where'd everybody go?"

"Home, Dennis," the other boy responded.  His eyes took on an inquisitive sheen.  "Don't your parents care about where you are?"

Dennis sat up and regretted it as the room spun around him.  Steadying himself against the cool white tile of the shower wall ( _Jesus, Tim,_ he thought with derision,  _your parents' taste in interior decorating is an abomination.  They couldn't spring for marble, or even stone?_ ), he vaguely recalled having made out with someone last night who had the misfortune of walking in on him.  Couldn't discern for sure whether it had been a girl or a guy, though.  Oh well.  He allowed Tim to help (actually drag) him out of the bathtub and into his car.  While Tim was driving him home, he glanced over at the clock on the dashboard, and he almost had a heart attack when he saw that it was 3:00.  

"Three o clock?  In the goddamn afternoon?  Son of a fucking whore!" he screeched.  "Why the fuck didn't you wake me up sooner, Tim?  I have to meet my parents and my twin sister for dinner in two hours!"

"Well, shit, how was I supposed to know that you were passed out cold in my bathroom?  Do you know how many bathrooms I have?"

"Fuck you, Tim!  My house has more and your bathrooms are shitty, anyway!"

"You know what?  You're lucky that your sister called asking where you were," Tim shouted back at him.  "Otherwise you would have probably lay there in my bathtub all day until my parents found you, and you and I would both be screwed."

"Whatever.  Just drive."

 Now, freshly shaven and his body purged of most of last night's toxins, Dennis had just under an hour to groom himself.   _Thanks a lot, Tim,_ he thought with a stab of dislike. Then, haughtily, pouting at his reflection,  _Bet the savage thinks getting ready consists of taking a quick shower and throwing on some clothes.  He probably doesn't even moisturize._ Dennis, on the other hand, knew the importance of a stringent beauty routine.  One should approach preparing oneself for the day like creating a work of art.  As his wise mother had taught him.  Primping was an elaborate, complicated process that should not be rushed.  On a typical day, such a time constraint as one hour would have sent him into existential panic.  But Dennis had popped two of the Valiums he'd stolen from his mother's nightstand, so everything was smooth for now.  Smooth, calm, and tranquil.  Dennis inhaled, then exhaled, focusing on his chest moving in and out.  Evaluating his pecs and stomach muscles.   _Should probably add a hundred more crunches to my workout,_ he noted.   _And another 30 minutes of cardio._ He was definitely toned, but there was a thin, pesky layer of fat over his gut that he did not appreciate.   _Probably from the_ drinking, he concluded with displeasure. _Maybe should fast again._ Ugh.  He'd wear a dark suit and think about that later.  First, he had to address a more important asset: his face.  Dennis stared at his reflection, surveying the damage.

Washed out, ruddy skin from the alcohol.  With deft fingers, he blended a thick layer of porcelain foundation over his cheeks, followed by a cream concealer, followed by a liberal (but not too heavy) dusting of loose translucent powder.  Dry lips.  He took care of that with a swipe of tinted lip balm.  Tired eyes.  Two coats of mascara did the trick.  Mussed hair.  A dollop of thickening mousse and teasing brought it back to life.

And voila.  Stepping back, Dennis admired himself.  Now that was more like it.  He cracked a grin, angling his face so that the bathroom light hit his cheekbone.  His mother's voice swam up to the surface of the murky swamp inside his head, an image of her standing behind him in front of a mirror a year or so ago, her speech a little slurred: _"You see that?  That's Kennedy bone structure there."_ Pausing to tip a wine glass to her mouth.   _"Dennis, you're lucky you inherited your mother's good looks.  Beauty like yours can rule the world.  I should know."_

What was mother doing now, Dennis wondered, watching his smile evaporate.  Shopping, most likely, which would guarantee a fight would ensue between she and his father at the restaurant over her spending more of his money.  His father would no doubt cause a scene, ending the meal early.  Good, Dennis thought.  This ensured that if he took long enough to order, he would most likely only have time to finish half of his food before they were forcibly ejected from the joint, freeing him from the obligation of consuming a whole meal for his parent's sake.  They'd gotten a bug up their asses about him eating ever since two months ago, when he passed out in class from fasting and the school threatened to call child services on them for "neglect."  

Bullshit.  Dennis wasn't being neglected.  If anything, he was spoiled.  Everything he wanted, he got.  He could do anything he pleased, whenever he pleased, however he pleased, without any limits or consequences.  And he was the favorite of the family.  Dennis' frown deepened.  A bit of residual hangover malaise, that was all.  Maybe he should have another drink.  A shot of vodka, to perk him up a bit.  So that his smile wouldn't feel like plastic when his mother asked him how he was, as if they lived a vast distance away instead of in the same house.  Dennis gripped the counter and sighed.  Yeah, he needed a drink.

 

*****

Another rule, and the most important of them all: _in order to be special, one must maintain an image of specialness at all times._  Even when it is inconvenient.  Even when it seems ridiculous.  Even when you don't feel like it.  Even if it hurts.  All great art is attained through great suffering.  No pain, no gain.   _Those called to the path of perfection do not get the option of slacking off._  There is no respite, there is no escape.  If you can't handle it, sink down with the other ordinaries into the mud of mediocrity.  "You can join your sister," his mother said to him scornfully.  "And your brain-damaged monkey of a father."

*****

Dennis was 18 years old, on holiday break from his freshman year at college and having lunch with Dee and his mother at Guigino's.  He and Dee huddled together at one end of the table, a united front against Barbara Reynolds, who sat perched upon her chair staring at them like a cat eyeing two mice.  Dennis and Dee had gone there together early to give themselves more time to mentally prepare for a meal alone with their mother.  Dee was wearing a long sleeved dress of black lace paired with black tights and tall black boots in the dim hope that she would appear slim and elegant.  Since whatever effort to look pretty on her part was immediately trumped by her enormous  and hideous back brace, there was usually  little risk of her one-upping him in terms of appearance.  Still, Dennis had worn a royal blue sweater that played up his eyes and detracted from a complexion that was a little more pallid than usual.  Their mother started with him first.

"So, Dennis, how is college treating you?"    

Stalling, Dennis gulped his glass of water, wishing it were wine.  He didn't feel well.  Not having had a decent night's sleep in a month and not having slept at all the past four days would probably have something to do with it.  That, and the fact that for the past couple months he'd been operating almost entirely on a mixture of booze, coffee, Ritalin, and cocaine.  He'd done a line of coke this morning when he arrived at the house, but already a pounding headache at his temples was urging him for more.  His nose was stuffed up and his throat felt like raw meat.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  He smiled at his mother, trying not to wince from the pain that speaking caused.  "It's going great, Mom.  Awesome."

His mother beamed at him.  "Good.  I knew you'd do well."

Dennis broke into a genuine smile now, a flush of pleasure blooming in his cheeks.  After all these years, her praise still managed to have this effect on him.  Like being bathed in the intense, glorious light of the sun.  The high was better than any other drug that he'd taken, one that he'd grown to crave especially in these past few months he'd spent alone at college, isolated from his friends and family.  He and Mac had talked practically every night over the phone, but it wasn't the same.  Mac's voice oozing with his typical puppy-dog sycophancy seemed flat when not in person.  Fake.  Without the person there in front of you, being complimented lost almost all of its pleasure.  Dennis might as well have called a phone sex line for all the good it did him.  Which he did, naturally.  That, too, hadn't done him much good, as the girl who answered actually hung up the phone because he was being "abusive."  

Glancing up, Dennis caught Dee staring at him in that annoying, nosy way of hers.  He followed her gaze to his hand, which bore a slight tremor.  Flashing her a glare, he quickly tucked his hand into his lap.   _Don't you say anything, you cunt,_ he tried to communicate with his eyes.  A look of total bewilderment passed over her face, then anger.   _Fuck you, asshole._ She seemed like she was going to say something when their mother turned to her, her tone growing bitter and demeaning.  "And how about you, Deandra?" she said.  "I see you've gained the Freshman 15."

Instantly, Dee deflated.  "Actually, I've been doing very well, thank you," she said defensively.  "Made a lot of new friends and--"

Their mother waved a manicured hand at her in disinterest.  "That's enough, Deandra.  I don't need your whole life story."

Giving up, Dee slumped back into her seat and picked at her meal.  She'd chosen Caesar salad, as anything else would have provoked their mother's criticism, Dennis surmised.   _Ha ha.  Wasted effort._

His head throbbed.  God, he could use some more coke right now.  He stared down at his glass,  irritated that its water had not magically transformed into alcohol.  The Valium he and Dee had shared before coming into the restaurant was wearing off, and it was going to be so much harder to say what he was about to say sober.  He studied his nearly untouched plate, collecting himself.  Then he cleared his throat.  "Actually, Mom, I've been meaning to talk to you about, uh, something."

He was met with a blank look.  "Oh, really?" 

Dennis could feel Dee staring at him now, too.  Heat flooded through him.  "Yeah," he said, haltingly.  "About college."  He dug his nails into his palms, hard.  "I think maybe ... I should take a short leave."

Both women's eyes widened in surprise.  Dennis saw the spark of calculation in Dee's, gears turning in her head: at last, could she officially be better than her brother at something?  

"Leave?" his mother repeated, as if he'd said something utterly insane.  "Darling, you can't be serious."

Dee jerked forward.  She looked like a fucking marionette puppet with her bony limbs in the air, Dennis thought brutally as she jabbed a finger at him.  "Oh, I think he's serious, Mom," she said, vibrating with excitement.  "Look at him.  He looks sick, right?  Probably not eating again.  Or addicted to drugs.  I saw his hand shaking earlier.  I bet that's it!"  She turned to Dennis, smiling a giddy, triumphant smile.  "You're on drugs, aren't you?"

Dennis slammed his hand down upon the table.  " _I am not, you bitch!_ " he screamed.

Heads turned in the restaurant, disapproving frowns.  His mother hunched her shoulders, flinching from humiliation.  "Dennis, please," she hissed, "don't throw another one of your tantrums here."

"Tantrums?"  Dennis' fingers tightened around the edge of his seat.  Suddenly, it was as if the entire world had somehow switched to a higher frequency, all colors and noises amplified.  The scraping of silverware was like nails on a chalkboard, the clatter of dishes like a clap of thunder, and the voices of those talking around him like an insufferable roar.  His sweater itched as if it were wool.  He tugged at the collar, hands trembling worse than before.  His breathing a little too fast.   _Relax, Dennis,_ he told himself.  Breathed in.  And out.  In.  And out.

Barbara Reynolds finished off her drink and plunked the now empty glass onto the table.  It was a deliberate motion intended to add dramatic emphasis to whatever she was about to say.  "Look, Dennis," she said, speaking with calm finality, "you're not going to take a leave.  You can't.  So put it out of your mind."  She paused, again for dramatic emphasis, took a bite of her filet mignon.  "You're just a little overwhelmed, is all.  Take a ski trip to Colorado.  Book a luxury suite.  Relax."

"What about me?" Dee whined.  Always thinking about herself.  "Can't I go on this trip?"

 _Breathe in.  And out,_ Dennis reminded himself.  "Shut up, Dee," he said.  Then, tensely, "Mom, you're not listening."  He continued, his speech increasingly disjointed and uncertain,  "I'm kind of ... in a bad place over there.  I don't-I don't feel ... right."  He scratched underneath his sleeve.  His skin felt strange, tight, like it wasn't his.    

His mother spooned soup into her mouth.  "Just stress from school," she said casually.  Throwing Dee a withering glance.  "Felt by anyone who actually works at their studies."

Dee groaned, truly affronted.  "Oh, come on!  So I'm flunking one class!  Big deal."

Dennis would be flunking all his classes if he wasn't using uppers to study and paying that one Asian nerd to do all his math homework.  And he certainly would have flunked his exams if he hadn't cheated on all of them.  But hey, good grades were good grades, right? 

His stomach hurt.  Just glancing at the meal in front of him made him queasy.  A plate of grilled salmon, cut into abstract shapes and bathed in tomato sauce.  It looked like a gunshot wound.  He wiped his forehead, which was clammy with perspiration.   _Drugs_ ,he thought, as if it were a mantra.   _I need drugs._

He looked up at his mother.  She looked back at him with admiration, her eyes dull and glazed over marbles of diazepam blue.  In his aching head, he heard her voice, slurring, _"I love you, Dennis."_  Then, abruptly, the universe mutated, his surroundings now fading.  Becoming a blur, as if draped under a layer of gauze.

Dennis felt cold now.  Cold, and empty.  He heard himself say in a monotone, "You're right, mother."  He contorted his lips into a smile, scratching vigorously underneath his sleeve and drawing blood.  "I don't know what I was thinking.  It's stress.  I just need a break."

His mother preened.  "I knew you were just being dramatic.  Besides," her eyes darkened, shined with the cold glimmer of a threat, "think of what people would say about you."

Dennis watched her bring a forked piece of filet mignon up to her mouth and repeat the words he'd heard her say a hundred times over: "After all, image is everything."

 

*****

Even when Dennis graduated college and left his home for good, he found that he could not escape his mother's judgement.  It was as if her voice had woven itself permanently into his internal voice.  Everywhere he went, it reminded him of her expectations and scolded him when he fell short.  Cooed words of adoration when he finished a difficult workout.  Chastised him violently when he struck out with an attractive woman or ate linguine for lunch.  No slacking off, no respite, he remembered.     

At age 30, he guessed he should have been less surprised when he felt relief at the news of her death.  A botched facelift, his father said.  It was a fitting death, Dennis thought.  That night, he sat up late with Dee at the bar, drinking, a rare companionable silence between the two siblings.  

"You know what," Dee said at last after a swig of beer, "I know you two had some tight bond or some shit, but Mom never liked me.  So, speaking for myself, I'm glad that bitch is dead."

Dennis chugged the last half of his drink, then hurled the bottle across the room, where it shattered to pieces against a wall.  He rested his elbows upon the bar counter, staring into space.  "Me too."


End file.
